"BÉRENGÈRE,puisYAQOUBetLE COMTE.
BÉRENGÈRE.Le voilà qui tombe!Savoisy, retiens-moi ma place dans ta tombe!(Elle avale le poison quelle avait montré à Yaqoub.)YAQOUB.... Fuyons! il vient(Le comte paraît, sanglant et se cramponnant à la tapisserie.)LE COMTE.C'est toi.Yaqoub, qui m'as tué!BÉRENGÈRE.Ce n'est pas lui: c'est moi!LE COMTE.Bérengère!... Au secours! Je meurs!YAQOUB.Maintenant, femme,Fais-moi tout oublier, car c'est vraiment infâme!Viens donc!... Tu m'as promis de venir ... Je t'attends...D'être à moi pour toujours!BÉRENGÈRE.Encor quelques instants,Et je t'appartiendrai tout entière.YAQOUB.Regarde!Ils accourent aux cris qu'il a poussés ... Prends garde,Nous ne pourrons plus fuir, il ne sera plus temps.Ils viennent, Bérengère!BÉRENGÈRE.Attends, encore, attends!YAQOUB.Oh! viens, viens! toute attente à cette heure est mortelle!La cour est pleine, vois ... Mais viens donc!... Que fait-elle?Bérengère, est-ce ainsi que tu gardes ta foi!Bérengère, entends-tu? viens!BÉRENGÈRE,rendant le dernier soupir.Me voici ... Prends moiYAQOUB.Oh! malédiction!... son front devient livide ...Son cœur?... Il ne bat plus!... Sa main? Le flacon vide!..."
It will be seen that this contains three imitations; the imitation of Racine'sAndromaque; that of Goethe'sGoetz von Berlichingen; and that of Alfred de Musset'sMarrons de feu.The reason is thatCharles VII.is, first of all, a study, a laboriously worked up study and not a work done on the spur of the moment; it is a work of assimilation and not an original drama, which cost me infinitely more labour thanAntony; but it does not therefore mean that I love it as much asAntony.Yet a few more words before I finish the subject. Let us run through the imitations in detail. I said I borrowed different passages from Maugrabin inQuentin Durward.Here they are:—
"'Unhappy being!' Quentin Durward exclaims. 'Think better! ... What canst thou expect, dying in such opinions, and impenitent?'"'To be resolved into the elements,' said the hardened atheist; my hope, trust and expectation is, that the mysterious frame of humanity shall melt into the general mass of nature, to be recompounded in the other forms with which she daily supplies those which daily disappear, and return under different forms,—the watery particles to streams and showers, the earthly parts to enrich their mother earth, the airy portions to wanton in the breeze; and those of fire to supply the blaze of Aldeboran and his brethren—In this faith have I lived, and I will die in it!'"
"'Unhappy being!' Quentin Durward exclaims. 'Think better! ... What canst thou expect, dying in such opinions, and impenitent?'
"'To be resolved into the elements,' said the hardened atheist; my hope, trust and expectation is, that the mysterious frame of humanity shall melt into the general mass of nature, to be recompounded in the other forms with which she daily supplies those which daily disappear, and return under different forms,—the watery particles to streams and showers, the earthly parts to enrich their mother earth, the airy portions to wanton in the breeze; and those of fire to supply the blaze of Aldeboran and his brethren—In this faith have I lived, and I will die in it!'"
Yaqoub is condemned to death for having killed Raymond the Comte's archer.
"LE COMTE.Esclave, si tu meurs en de tels sentiments,Q'espères-tu?YAQOUB.De rendre un corps aux éléments,Masse commune où l'homme, en expirant, rapporteTout ce qu'en le créant la nature en emporte.Si la terre, si l'eau, si l'air et si le feuMe formèrent, aux mains du hasard ou de Dieu,Le vent, en dispersant ma poussière en sa course,Saura bien reporter chaque chose à sa source!"
The second imitation examined in detail is again borrowed from Walter Scott, but fromThe Talismanthis time, not fromQuentin Durward.The Knight of the Leopard and the Saracen, after fighting against one another, effect a truce, and take lunch, chatting together, by the fountain called the Diamond of the Desert.
"'Stranger,' asked the Saracen,—'with how many men didst thou come on this warfare?'"'By my faith,' said Sir Kenneth, 'with aid of friends and kinsmen, I was hardly pinched to furnish forth ten well-appointed lances, with maybe some fifty more men, archers and varlets included.'"'Christian, here I have five arrows in my quiver, each feathered from the wing of an eagle. When I send one of them to my tents, a thousand warriors mount on horseback. When I send another, an equal force will arise—for the five, I can command five thousand men; and if I send my bow, ten thousand mounted riders will shake the desert.'"
"'Stranger,' asked the Saracen,—'with how many men didst thou come on this warfare?'
"'By my faith,' said Sir Kenneth, 'with aid of friends and kinsmen, I was hardly pinched to furnish forth ten well-appointed lances, with maybe some fifty more men, archers and varlets included.'
"'Christian, here I have five arrows in my quiver, each feathered from the wing of an eagle. When I send one of them to my tents, a thousand warriors mount on horseback. When I send another, an equal force will arise—for the five, I can command five thousand men; and if I send my bow, ten thousand mounted riders will shake the desert.'"
"YAQOUB.Car mon père, au Saïd, n'est point un chef vulgaire.Il a dans son carquois quatre flèches de guerre,Et, lorsqu'il tend son arc, et que, vers quatre buts,Il le lance en signal à ses quatre tribus,Chacune à lui fournir cent cavaliers fidèlesMet le temps que met l'aigle â déployer ses ailes."
There, thank Heaven, my confession is ended! It has been a long one; but thenCharles VII., as an assimilative and imitative work, is my greatest sin in that respect.
Poetry is the Spirit of God—The Conservatoire and l'École of Rome—Letter of counsel to my Son—Employment of my time at Trouville—Madame de la Garenne—The Vendéan Bonnechose—M. Beudin—I am pursued by a fish—What came of it
Poetry is the Spirit of God—The Conservatoire and l'École of Rome—Letter of counsel to my Son—Employment of my time at Trouville—Madame de la Garenne—The Vendéan Bonnechose—M. Beudin—I am pursued by a fish—What came of it
If I had not just steeped my readers in literature, during the preceding chapters, I should place a work before them which might not perhaps be uninteresting to them. It would be the ancient tradition ofPhèdre,which is to Euripides, for example, what the Spanish romancer's is to Guilhem de Castro. Then I would show what Euripides borrowed from tradition; then what, five hundred years later, theRomanSeneca borrowed from Euripides; then finally, what, sixteen centuries later still, theFrenchRacine borrowed from both Euripides and Seneca. At the same time I should show how the genius of each nation and the emotional taste of each age brought about changes from the original character of the subject. One last word. Amongst all peoples, literature always begins with poetry; prose only comes later. Orpheus, Homer, Hesiod—Herodotus, Plato, Aristotle.
"In the beginning, says Genesis, God created the heavens. And the earth was waste and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep; and theSpirit of God moved upon the face of the waters."
"In the beginning, says Genesis, God created the heavens. And the earth was waste and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep; and theSpirit of God moved upon the face of the waters."
Poetry is the Spirit of God, or, rather, it is primeval poetic substance, impersonal and common property; it floats in space like the cosmic essence of which Humboldt speaks, a kind of luminous matter, mother of old worlds, germ of worlds to come; indestructible, because it is incessantly beingrenewed, each element faithfully giving back to it that which it has borrowed.
Gradually, however, this matter settles round the great personalities, as clouds settle round great mountains, and in like manner as clouds dissolve into springs of living waters, spreading over plains, satisfying bodily thirst, so does this cosmic element resolve itself into poetry, hymns, songs and tragedies which satisfy the thirst of the soul. The inference to be drawn from the foregoing analogy is, that human genius creates and individual genius applies. Thus, when a critic happened to accuse Shakespeare of having taken a scene or phrase or idea from a contemporary writer, he said: "I have but rescued a child from evil company to put it among better companions." Again, Molière answered, even more naively still, when people made the same reproach with regard to him: "I take my treasure wherever I find it!" Now, Shakespeare and Molière were right: the man of genius—need I point out that I mean the great masters, not myself? (I am well aware that I shall not be of any importance until after my death!)—the man of genius, I repeat, does not steal, he conquers: he makes a colony, as it were, of the province he takes; he imposes his own laws upon it and peoples it with his own subjects; he extends his golden sceptre over it, and not a soul, seeing his fine kingdom, dares to say to him (except, of course, the jealous, who are subject to no one and will not recognise even genius as supreme ruler), "This portion of territory does not belong to your patrimony." It is an absurd notion that this arbitrary spirit should accord its protection to letters: it means that it prohibits foreign literature and discourages contemporary literature. In a country like France, which is the brain of Europe, and whose language is spoken throughout the whole world, owing to the equipoise of consonants and vowels, which disconcert neither northern nor southern nations, there ought to be a universal literature besides its national one. Everything of beauty that has been produced in the whole world, from Æschylus down to Alfieri, fromSakountalatoRoméo, from the romancero of theCiddown to Schiller'sBrigands,—all ought to belong to France, if not by right of inheritance, at least by right of conquest. Nothing that an entire people has admired can be without value, and everything that has a value ought to find its place in that vast casket entitled French intelligence. It is on account of this false system that there is a Conservatoire and an École at Rome. We have already, in connection with themise-en-scèneof Soulié'sJuliette, said a few words about this Conservatoire, which has the unique object of teaching young men to scan Molière and to recite Racine'sCorneille.We will now complete the sketch begun. As a result of the invariable programme, adopted by the government, every pupil of the Conservatoire, after three years' study, leaves the rue Bergère incapable of appreciating any modern or foreign literature; acquainted with thesongeof Athalie, therécitof Théramène, the monologue of Auguste, the scene between Tartuffe and Elmire, that of the Misanthrope and Oronte, of Gros-René and Marinette; he is completely ignorant that there existed at Athens people of the names of Æschylus, Euripides, Sophocles and Aristophanes; at Rome, Ennius, Plautus, Terence and Seneca; in England, Shakespeare, Otway, Sheridan and Byron; in Germany, Goethe, Schiller, Uhland and Kotzebue; in Spain, Guillem de Castro, Tirso de Molina, Calderon and Lope de Vega; in Italy, Macchiavelli, Goldoni, Alfieri; that these men have left a trail of light across twenty-four centuries and among five different peoples, consisting of stars calledOrestes, Alcestis, Œdipus at Colonus, The Knights, Aulularia, Eunuchus, Hippolytus, Romeo and Juliet, Venice Preserved, The School for Scandal, Manfred, Goetz von Berlichingen, Kabale und Liebe, les Pupilles, Menschenhass und Reue, The Cid, Don Juan, le Chien du Jardinier, le Médecin de son honneur, le Meilleur Alcade c'est le Roi, la Mandragora, le Bourra bienfaisant, and Philippe II.You will see that I only quote one masterpiece by each of these men; also that the pupils of the Conservatoire are utterly ignorant, behind the times and of no use on any stage except those which play Molière, Racine and Corneille. And,furthermore!... None of the great actors of our time have come from the Conservatoire; neither Talma, nor Mars, Firmin, Potier, Vernet, Bouffé, Rachel, Frédérick-Lemaître, Bocage, Dorval, Mélingue, Arnal, Numa, Bressant, Déjazet, Rose Chéri, Duprez, Masset, nor any prominent person whatsoever. What is to be said about a mill which goes round and says tic-tac but does not grind?
Ah! well, the same vice exists in the École of Rome as in the Conservatoire. If there is a changeable art it is that of painting. Each artist sees a colour which is not that of his neighbour; one calls it green, another yellow, another blue, another red: one inclines towards the Flemish School, another to the Spanish and yet another to the German. You would think they would send each student, according as his bent might be, to study Rubens at Anvers, Murillo at Madrid, Cornelius at Munich? Nothing of the sort! They all go to Rome to study Raphael or Michael Angelo! Not a painter, not a single original sculptor of our time was a pupil at Rome; neither Delacroix, nor Rousseau, Diaz, Dupré, Cabot, Boulanger, Müller, Isabey, Brascassat, Giraud, Barrye, Clésinger, Gavarni, Rosa Bonheur, nor ... upon my word, I was tempted to say—nor anybody! But as the institution is absurd it will still continue to exist. With half the money to spend they could turn out twice as many actors, painters and sculptors; only, they would turn them out capable instead of incapable.
We have travelled a long way from Trouville! What would you have me do? Fancy has the wings of Icarus, the horses of Hippolytus: she goes as far as she dare towards the sun, as near as she dare without dashing herself against the rocks. Let us return toCharles VII., the first cause of all this digression. Whatever may have been the cause; when I returned to Mother Oseraie's inn, at nine o'clock on the evening of 7 July, I wrote the first lines of that scene. By the following morning, the first hundred lines of the drama were done, and among them were the thirty-six or thirty-eight relating Yaqoub's lion hunt. They should rank among the few really good lines Ihave written. On the other hand, in order that an exact idea may be formed of the value I put upon my own poetry, I may be allowed to transcribe here a letter which I wrote, fifteen or sixteen years ago, to my son, who asked my advice on the poetry he ought to read and on the ancient and modern poets he ought to study.
"MY DEAR BOY,—Your letter gave me great pleasure, as every letter from you does which shows you are doing what is right. You ask me the use of the Latin verses—which you are forced to compose; they are not very important; nevertheless, you learn metre by so doing, and that enables you to scan properly and to understand the music of Virgil's poetry and the freedom and ease of Horace. Again, this habit of scanning will come in useful, if you ever have to talk Latin in Hungary, where every peasant speaks it. Learn Greek steadily and thoroughly, so as to be able to read Homer, Æschylus, Sophocles, Euripides, and Aristophanes in the original, and you will then be able to learn modern Greek in three months. Practise yourself well in the pronunciation of German; later you will learn English and Italian. Then, when you know all these, we will decide together what career you shall follow. At the same time do not neglect drawing. Tell Charlieu to give you not only Shakespeare but Dante and Schiller as well. Do not place much reliance on the verses they make you read, at school: professor's verses are not worth a son! Study the Bible, as a religious book, a history and a poem; Sacy's translation, although very poor, is the best; look for the magnificent poetry contained beneath all those ambiguous veilings and obscurities; in Saul and Joseph, and especially in Job, a poem which is one long human wail. Read Corneille; learn portions of him by heart. Corneille is not always poetical, he is at times pettifogging; but he always uses fine, picturesque and concise language. Tell Charpentier, from me, to give you André Chénier: he is the poet of solitude and the night, akin to the nightingales. Charpentier lives in the rue de Seine; you can get his address from Buloz. Tell Collin to give you, through Hachette, four volumes entitled,Rome au Siècle d'Auguste; it is a dry but learned work on ancient times. Read all Hugo; read Lamartine, but only theMéditationsand theHarmonies.Then write an essay on the passages you think beautiful and those you think bad; and show it to me on my return. Finally,always keep yourself occupied, and rest yourself by the variety of your occupations. Take care of your healthand be wise.Good-bye, my dear lad. I told D to give you twenty francs for a New Year's gift.ALEXANDRE DUMAS"P.S.—Tell Collin that, as soon as my piece is received, I will write to Buloz to arrange the business of his introduction to the Théâtre-Français. Go to Tresse, at the Palais Royal; get from him at my expense the poems of Hugo, and his dramas, and Molière of the Panthéon; the Lamartine I will give you on my return. Read Molière often, much, always; with Saint-Simon and Madame Sévigné he is the supreme type of the language of the time of Louis XIV. Learn by heart certain passages ofTartuffe, theFemmes savantesand theMisanthrope: there have been and there will be other masterpieces of style, but nothing will ever exceed these in beauty. Learn by heart the monologue of Charles Quint fromHernani, allMarion Delorme, the monologue of Saint-Vallier and that of Triboulet inLe Roi s'amuse, the speech of Angelo on Venice; in conclusion, although I have few things to mention in comparison with the works I have just pointed out to you, learn the recital of Stella, in myCaligula; Yaqoub's lion-hunt, as well as the whole scene between the Comte, the King and Agnes Sorel, in the third act ofCharles VII.Read de Vigny'sOthelloandRoméo; read de Musset without being carried away by his great facility and his inaccuracy, which in him might almost be reckoned a virtue, but which, in another, would be a serious fault. These are the ancient and modern writers I advise you to study. Later you shall pass on from these to a wider range. Adieu, you see I am treating you as though you were a grown-up youth and reasoning with you. You will soon be fifteen, and what I have said is quite easy to understand—your health, your health before all things: health is the foundation of everything in your future, and especially of talent."A. D."
"MY DEAR BOY,—Your letter gave me great pleasure, as every letter from you does which shows you are doing what is right. You ask me the use of the Latin verses—which you are forced to compose; they are not very important; nevertheless, you learn metre by so doing, and that enables you to scan properly and to understand the music of Virgil's poetry and the freedom and ease of Horace. Again, this habit of scanning will come in useful, if you ever have to talk Latin in Hungary, where every peasant speaks it. Learn Greek steadily and thoroughly, so as to be able to read Homer, Æschylus, Sophocles, Euripides, and Aristophanes in the original, and you will then be able to learn modern Greek in three months. Practise yourself well in the pronunciation of German; later you will learn English and Italian. Then, when you know all these, we will decide together what career you shall follow. At the same time do not neglect drawing. Tell Charlieu to give you not only Shakespeare but Dante and Schiller as well. Do not place much reliance on the verses they make you read, at school: professor's verses are not worth a son! Study the Bible, as a religious book, a history and a poem; Sacy's translation, although very poor, is the best; look for the magnificent poetry contained beneath all those ambiguous veilings and obscurities; in Saul and Joseph, and especially in Job, a poem which is one long human wail. Read Corneille; learn portions of him by heart. Corneille is not always poetical, he is at times pettifogging; but he always uses fine, picturesque and concise language. Tell Charpentier, from me, to give you André Chénier: he is the poet of solitude and the night, akin to the nightingales. Charpentier lives in the rue de Seine; you can get his address from Buloz. Tell Collin to give you, through Hachette, four volumes entitled,Rome au Siècle d'Auguste; it is a dry but learned work on ancient times. Read all Hugo; read Lamartine, but only theMéditationsand theHarmonies.Then write an essay on the passages you think beautiful and those you think bad; and show it to me on my return. Finally,always keep yourself occupied, and rest yourself by the variety of your occupations. Take care of your healthand be wise.Good-bye, my dear lad. I told D to give you twenty francs for a New Year's gift.ALEXANDRE DUMAS"
P.S.—Tell Collin that, as soon as my piece is received, I will write to Buloz to arrange the business of his introduction to the Théâtre-Français. Go to Tresse, at the Palais Royal; get from him at my expense the poems of Hugo, and his dramas, and Molière of the Panthéon; the Lamartine I will give you on my return. Read Molière often, much, always; with Saint-Simon and Madame Sévigné he is the supreme type of the language of the time of Louis XIV. Learn by heart certain passages ofTartuffe, theFemmes savantesand theMisanthrope: there have been and there will be other masterpieces of style, but nothing will ever exceed these in beauty. Learn by heart the monologue of Charles Quint fromHernani, allMarion Delorme, the monologue of Saint-Vallier and that of Triboulet inLe Roi s'amuse, the speech of Angelo on Venice; in conclusion, although I have few things to mention in comparison with the works I have just pointed out to you, learn the recital of Stella, in myCaligula; Yaqoub's lion-hunt, as well as the whole scene between the Comte, the King and Agnes Sorel, in the third act ofCharles VII.Read de Vigny'sOthelloandRoméo; read de Musset without being carried away by his great facility and his inaccuracy, which in him might almost be reckoned a virtue, but which, in another, would be a serious fault. These are the ancient and modern writers I advise you to study. Later you shall pass on from these to a wider range. Adieu, you see I am treating you as though you were a grown-up youth and reasoning with you. You will soon be fifteen, and what I have said is quite easy to understand—your health, your health before all things: health is the foundation of everything in your future, and especially of talent.
"A. D."
I hope the sincerity and impartiality of my opinion upon others will be believed, when it is seen with what sincerity and impartiality I speak of myself.
From that day our life began to assume the uniformity and monotony of the life of the waters. I bethought me that I ought to introduce myself to the mayor, M. Guétier, a braveand excellent man, who I believe played a somewhat active part in 1848, in the embarking of King Louis-Philippe. He gave me free leave to hunt over the communal marshes, which leave I took advantage of from that very day. The rising sun shot through the window of my room, and, although the curtains were drawn, it woke me in my bed. I opened my eyes, stretched out my hand for my pencil and set to work. At ten o'clock, Mother Oseraie came and told us breakfast was ready; at eleven, I took my gun and shot three or four snipe; at two, I began work again until four; at four, I went for a swim till five; and at half-past five dinner was ready for us; from seven until nine o'clock we went for a walk on the shore; at nine o'clock work was begun again and continued until eleven o'clock or midnight.Charles VII.advanced at the rate of a hundred lines per day. Undiscovered though Trouville was, nevertheless a few Normandy, Vendéan or Breton bathers came there. Among these was a charming woman, accompanied by her husband and her son; I remember nothing more about her than her name and face: she was gracious and prepossessing in expression, with a slightly aristocratic air; her name was Madame de la Garenne. From the day of her arrival, directly she knew I was living at the hotel, she began the preliminaries of making an acquaintanceship by boldly lending me her album. I had just finished the great scene in the third act between the Comte de Savoisy and Charles VII., and I copied it out for her, newly born from my brain. A good sort of young fellow had come with them, who concealed some degree of knowledge and great determination under the retiring air of a country gentleman. He was a sportsman, which similarity of tastes rapidly made us congenial companions if not exactly friends. He was the unfortunate Bonnechose, who was hung during the Vendéan insurrection of 1832. Whilst we were walking and hunting in the marsh lands round Trouville, Madame la Duchesse de Berry obtained permission from King Charles X. to make an attempt on France, under the title of regent; she left Edinburgh, went through Holland, stayed a day or two at Mayence, and thesame at Frankfort, crossed the frontier of Switzerland and entered Piedmont; then, finally, under the name of the Comtesse de Sagana, she stopped at Sestri, a small town a dozen leagues from Genoa, in the provinces of King Charles-Albert. Thus, all unsuspected by Bonnechose, death was postponed for one year! Meantime, the report began to spread in Paris that a new seaport had been discovered between Honfleur and la Délivrande. The result was that from time to time a venturesome bather would arrive who would ask timidly, "Is there a village called Trouville about here, and is that it with the belfry tower?" And I would replyyes, to my great regret: for I foresaw the time when Trouville would become another Dieppe or Boulogne or Ostend. I was not mistaken. Alas! Trouville has now ten inns; and land which could be bought at a hundred francs the arpent,[1]to-day fetches five francs per foot. One day among these venturesome bathers, these wandering tourists, these navigators without compass, there arrived a man of twenty-eight to thirty years of age, who gave out that his name was Beudin and that he was a banker. On the very evening of his arrival I was bathing a long distance off in the sea, when about ten yards from me, on the crest of a wave, I perceived a fish which realised the dream of Marécot in theOurs et le Pacha—that is to say, it was a huge enormous fish such as one scarcely ever sees, the like of which many never have seen. Had I possessed a little more vanity, I might have taken it for a dolphin and imagined it had taken me for another Arion; but I simply took it for a fish of gigantic proportions, and, I confess, its proximity disturbed me—I set to work to swim to the shore as hard as I could. I was a good swimmer, in those days, but my neighbour, the fish, could swim still better; accordingly, without any apparent effort, it followed me, always keeping an equal distance from me. Two or three times, feeling fatigued—mostly from want of breath—I thought of taking to my feet, but I was afraid of becoming nervous if I found toogreat a depth of water beneath me. I therefore continued to swim until my knees ploughed into the sand. The other swimmers were looking at me in astonishment; my fish was following me as though I held it in leash. When I got to the point of touching the sand with my knees I stood up. My fish made somersault after somersault and seemed overjoyed with satisfaction. I turned round and looked at it more closely and calmly. I saw it was a porpoise. Instantly I ran to Mother Oseraie's house. I ran through the village just as I was, in my bathing drawers. Although Mother Oseraie was not very impressionable, she was not accustomed to receive travellers in so light a costume and she uttered a cry.
"Don't mind me, Mother Oseraie," I said to her, "I have come to get my gun."
"Good Lord!" she said, "are you going to hunt in the happy hunting fields?"
Had I been in less of a hurry, I would have stopped and complimented her on her wit; but I only thought of the porpoise. Upon the stairs I met Madame de la Garenne; the staircase was very narrow and I drew aside to let her pass. I thought of asking how her husband and son were, but I reflected that the moment for holding a conversation was ill-chosen. Madame de la Garenne passed by and I flew into my room and seized hold of my carbine. The chamber-maid was making my bed.
"Ah! monsieur, instead of taking your gun hadn't you better take some clothes?"
It seemed as though my costume inspired wit in all who saw me. I ran full tilt down the road to the sea. My porpoise was still turning somersaults. I went up to my waist in the water until I was about fifty feet from him; I was afraid I might frighten him if I went any nearer; besides, I was just at the right range. I took aim and fired. I heard the dull sound of the ball penetrating the flesh. The porpoise dived and disappeared. Next day, the fishermen found it dead among the mussel-covered rocks. The bullet had entered a little below the eye and gone through the head.
[1]TRANSLATOR'S NOTE.—An old French measure varying in different provinces from 3 roods to 2 English acres.
[1]TRANSLATOR'S NOTE.—An old French measure varying in different provinces from 3 roods to 2 English acres.
Why M. Beudin came to Trouville—How I knew him under another name—Prologue of a drama—What remained to be done—Division into three parts—I finishCharles VII.—Departing from Trouville—In what manner I learn of the first performance ofMarion Delorme
Why M. Beudin came to Trouville—How I knew him under another name—Prologue of a drama—What remained to be done—Division into three parts—I finishCharles VII.—Departing from Trouville—In what manner I learn of the first performance ofMarion Delorme
The night of that adventure, the fresh bather came up to me and complimented me on my skill. It was an excuse for beginning a conversation. We sat out on the beach and chatted. After a few remarks had been exchanged he said to me:
"Well! there is one thing you have no idea of."
"What is that?" I asked.
"That I have come here almost on your account."
"How so?"
"You do not recognise me under my name of Beudin?"
"I confess I do not."
"But you may, perhaps, recognise me under that of Dinaux?"
"What! Victor Ducange's collaborator!"
"Exactly."
"The same who wroteTrente ans ou la vie d'un Joueurwith him?"
"That was I ... or rather us."
"Why us?"
"There were two of us: Goubaux and myself."
"Ah! I knew Goubaux; he is a man of boundless merit."
"Thanks!"
"Pardon ... one cannot be skilful both with gun and in conversation ... With the gun, now, I should not have missed you!"
"You have not missed me as it is; in the first shot you brought me down by saying that Goubaux was a clever man and that I was an idiot!"
"Confess that you never thought I meant anything of the kind?"
"Upon my word, no!" And we burst out laughing.
"Well," I resumed, "as you probably did not hunt me out to receive the compliment I have just given you, tell me why you did."
"To talk to you about a play which Goubaux and I did not feel equal to bringing to a satisfactory conclusion, but which, in your hands, would become—plus the style—equal to theJoueur."
I bowed my thanks.
"No, upon my word of honour, I am certain the idea will take your fancy!" continued Beudin.
"Have you any part done or is it still in a nebulous state?"
"We have done the prologue, which is in quite a tangible shape.... But, as for the rest, you must help us to do it."
"Have you the prologue with you?"
"No, nothing is written down yet; but I can relate it to you."
"I am listening."
"The scene is laid in Northumberland, about 1775. An old physician whom, if you will, we will call Dr. Grey and his wife separate, the wife to go to bed, the husband to work part of the night. Scarcely has the wife closed the door of her room, before a carriage stops under the doctor's windows and a man inquires for a doctor. Dr. Grey reveals his profession; the travellers asks hospitality for some one who cannot go any further. The doctor opens his door and a masked man, carrying a woman in his arms, enters upon the scene, telling the postilion to unharness the horses and hide both them and the carriage."
"Bravo! the beginning is excellent!... We can picture the masked man and the sick woman."
The woman is near her confinement; her lover is carryingher away and they are on their way to embark at Shields when the pangs of childbirth come upon the fugitive; it is important to conceal all trace of her; her father, who is the all-powerful ambassador of Spain in London, is in pursuit of her. The doctor attends to them with all haste: he points out a room to the masked man who carries the patient into it; then he rouses his wife to help him to attend to the sick woman. At this moment they hear the sound of a carriage passing at full gallop. The cries of the woman call the doctor to her side; the masked man comes back on the stage, not having the courage to witness his mistress's sufferings. After a short time the doctor rushes to find his guest: the unknown woman has just given birth to a boy, and mother and child are both doing well."
The narrator interrupted himself.
"Do you think," he asked me, "that this scene would be possible on the stage?"
"Why not? It was possible in Terence's day."
"In what way?"
"Thus:
"PAMPHILA.Miseram me! differor deloribus! Juno Lucina, fer opem! Serva me, obsecro!REGIO.Numnam ilia, quæso, parturit?... Hem!PAMPHILA.Oh! unhappy wretch! My pains overcome me! Juno Lucina, come to my aid! save me, I entreat thee.REGIO.Hullo, I say, is she about to be confined?"
"PAMPHILA.
Miseram me! differor deloribus! Juno Lucina, fer opem! Serva me, obsecro!
REGIO.
Numnam ilia, quæso, parturit?... Hem!
PAMPHILA.
Oh! unhappy wretch! My pains overcome me! Juno Lucina, come to my aid! save me, I entreat thee.
REGIO.
Hullo, I say, is she about to be confined?"
"Is that in Terence?"
"Certainly."
"Then we are saved!"
"I quite believe it! It is as purely classical asAmphitryonandl'Avare."
"I will proceed, then."
"And I will listen!"
"Just as the masked man is rushing into the chamber of the sick woman, there is a violent knocking at Dr. Grey's door. 'Who is there? Open in the name of the law!' It is the father, a constable and two police-officers. The doctor is obliged to admit that he has given shelter to the two fugitives; the father declares that he will carry his daughter away instantly. The doctor opposes in the name of humanity and his wife; the father insists; the doctor then informs him of the condition of the sick woman, and both beg him to be merciful to her. Fury of the father, who completely ignores the situation. At that moment, the masked man comes joyfully out of the sickroom and is aghast to see the father of the woman he has carried off; the father leaps at his throat and demands his arrest. The noise of the struggle reaches theaccouchée, who comes out half-fainting and falls at her father's feet: she vows she will follow her lover everywhere, even to prison; that he is her husband in the eyes of men. The father again and more energetically calls into requisition the assistance of the constable and takes his daughter in his arms to carry her away. The doctor and his wife implore in vain. The masked man comes forward in his turn ... and the act finishes there; stay, I have outlined the last scene ... Let us suppose that the masked man has assumed the name of Robertson, that the father is called Da Sylva and the young lady Caroline:—
"ROBERTSON,putting his hand on Da Sylva's shoulder.—Leave her alone.CAROLINE.—Oh, father!... my Robertson!...DA SYLVA.—Thy Robertson, indeed!... Look, all of you and I will show you who thy Robertson is ... Off with that mask." (He snatches it from Robertson's face).—"Look he is ...""ROBERTSON.—Silence; in the name of and for the sake of your daughter."
"ROBERTSON,putting his hand on Da Sylva's shoulder.—Leave her alone.
CAROLINE.—Oh, father!... my Robertson!...
DA SYLVA.—Thy Robertson, indeed!... Look, all of you and I will show you who thy Robertson is ... Off with that mask." (He snatches it from Robertson's face).—"Look he is ..."
"ROBERTSON.—Silence; in the name of and for the sake of your daughter."
"You understand," Beudin went on "he quickly puts his mask on again, so quickly that nobody, except the audience whom he is facing, has time to see his countenance."
"Well; after that?"
"After?"
"You are right," says Da Sylva; "she alone shall know who you are.... This man.""Well?" asks Caroline anxiously."This man," says Da Sylva leaning close to his daughter's ear; "this man is the executioner!"
"You are right," says Da Sylva; "she alone shall know who you are.... This man."
"Well?" asks Caroline anxiously.
"This man," says Da Sylva leaning close to his daughter's ear; "this man is the executioner!"
"Caroline shrieks and falls. That is the end of the prologue."
"Wait a bit," I said, "surely I know something similar to that ... yes ... no. Yes, in theChronicles of the Canongate!"
"Yes; it was, in fact, Walter Scott's novel which gave us the idea for our play."
"Well, but what then? There is no drama in the remainder of the novel."
"No.... So we depart completely from it here."
"Good! And when we leave it what follows?"
"There is an interval of twenty-six years. The stage represents the same room; only, everything has grown older in twenty-six years, personages, furniture and hangings. The man whose face the audience saw, and whom Da Sylva denounced in a whisper to his daughter, as the executioner, is playing chess with Dr. Grey; Mrs. Grey is sewing; Richard, the child of the prologue, is, standing up writing; Jenny, the doctor's daughter, watches him as he writes."
"Stay, that idea of everybody twenty-six years older is capital."
"And then?"
"Ah! plague take it! That is all there is," said Beudin. "What, you stop there?"
"Yes ... the deuce! you know well enough that if the play were concluded we should not want your assistance!"
"Quite so ... but still, you must have some idea concerning the rest of the play?"
"Yes ... Richard has grown up under his father's care.Richard is ambitious, and wants to become a member of the House of Commons. Dr. Grey's influence can help him: he pretends to be in love with his daughter ... We will have the spectacle of an English election, which will be out of the common."
"And then?"
"Well then, you must invent the rest."
"But, come, that means that there is nearly the whole thing to finish!"
"Yes, very nearly ... But that won't trouble you!"
"That's all very well; but, at this moment, I am busy on my drama,Charles VII., and I cannot give my mind to anything else."
"Oh! there is no desperate hurry for it! meantime Goubaux will work away at it whilst I will do likewise ... You like the idea?"
"Yes."
"All right! when you return to Paris we will have a meeting at your house or at mine or at Goubaux's and we will fix our plans."
"Granted, but on one condition."
"What?"
"That it shall be under your names and I shall remain behind the curtain."
"Why so?"
"Because, in the first place, the idea is not mine; and, secondly, because I have decided never to let my name be associated with any other name."[1]
"Then we will withhold our names."
"No, indeed! that is out of the question."
"Very well, as you will! We will settle the point when we have come to it.... You will take half share?"
"Why half, when there are three of us?"
"Because we are leaving you the trouble of working out the plot."
"I will compose the play if you wish; but I will only take a third of the profits."
"We will discuss all that in Paris."
"Precisely so! But do not forget that I make my reservations."
"Then, this 24 July, at five o'clock in the afternoon, it is agreed that you, Goubaux and I shall writeRichard Darlingtonbetween us."
"To-day, 24 July, my birthday, it is agreed, at five o'clock in the afternoon, that Goubaux, you and I shall writeRichard Darlington."
"Is to-day your birthday?"
"I was twenty-nine at four o'clock this morning."
"Bravo! that will bring us good luck!"
"I hope so!"
"When shall you be in Paris?"
"About 15 August."
"That will suit perfectly!"
"Now, jot down the plan of the prologue for me on a slip of paper."
"Why now?"
"Because I shall come to the rendez-vous with the prologue completed.... The more there is done the less will there be to do."
"Capital! you shall have the outline to-morrow."
"Oh! it will do if I have it just before I leave; if I have it to-morrow, I shall finish it the day after to-morrow, and that will cause trouble in the matter of the drama I am writing."
"Very well; I will keep it ready for you."
"Ah! one more favour."
"Which is?"
"Do not let us speak ofRichard Darlingtonagain; I shallthink of it quite enough, you need not fear, without talking about it."
"We will not mention it again."
And, as a matter of fact, from that moment, there was no reference made between us toRichard Darlington—I will not say as though it had never existed, but as though it never were to exist. On the other hand,Charles VII.went on its way. On 10 August I wrote the four last lines.
"Vous qui, nés sur la terre,Portez comme des chiens, la chaîne héréditaire,Demeurez en hurlant près du sépulcre ou vert ...Pour Yakoub, il est libre, et retourne au désert!"
When the work was finished, I read it over. It was, as I have said, more in the nature of apastichethan a true drama; but there was an immense advance in style betweenChristineandCharles VII.True,Christineis far superior toCharles VII.in imagination and in dramatic feeling.
Nothing further kept me at Trouville. Beudin had preceded me to Paris several days before. We took leave of M. and Madame de la Garenne; we settled our accounts with Madame Oseraie and we started for Paris. Bonnechose accompanied us as far as Honfleur. He did not know how to part with us, poor fellow! He might have guessed that we were never to see each other again. The same night we took diligence from Rouen. Next day, at dawn, the travellers got down to climb a hillside; I thought I recognised, among our fellow-passengers, one of the editors of theJournal des Débats.I went up to him as he was coming towards me, and we got into conversation.
"Well!" he said, "you have heard?"
"What?"
"Marion Delormehas been performed."
"Ah really?... And here am I hurrying to be present at the first performance!"
"You will not see it ... and you will not have lost much."
It was a matter of course that the editor of a journalso devoted an admirer of Hugo as was theJournal des Débatsshould speak thus of the great poet.
"Why do I not miss much? Has the play not succeeded?"
"Oh! yes indeed! but coldly, coldly, coldly; and no money in it."
My companion said this with the intense gratification of the critic taking his revenge upon the author, of the eunuch with his foot on the sultan's neck.
"Cold? No money?" I repeated.
"And besides, badly played!"
"Badly played by Bocage and Dorval! Come now!"
"If the author had had any common-sense he would have withdrawn the play or he would have had it performed after the July Revolution, while things were warm after the rejection of MM. de Polignac and de la Bourdonnaie."
"But as to poetry?..."
"Weak! Much poorer thanHernani!"
"Ah! say you so," I burst forth, "a drama weak in poetry that contains such lines as these!"—
"LE ROI.Je sais l'affaire, assez q'avez vous a me dire?LE MARQUIS DE NANGIS.Je dis qu'il est bien temps que vous y songiez, sire:Que le cardinal-due a de sombres projets,Et qu'il boit le meilleur du sang de vos sujets.Votre père Henri, de mémoire royale,N'eut point ainsi livré sa noblesse loyale;Il ne la frappait point sans y fort regarder,Et, bien gardé par elle, il savait la garder;Il savait qu'on peut faire, avec des gens d'épees,Quelque chose de mieux que des têtes coupées;Qu'ils sont bons à la guerre! Il ne l'ignorait point,Lui, dont plus d'une balle a troué le pourpoint.Ce temps était le bon; j'en fus, et je l'honore;Un peu de seigneurie y palpitait encore.Jamais à des seigneurs un prêtre n'eût touché;On n'avait point alors de tête à bon marché.Sire, en des jours mauvais comme ceux où nous sommes,Croyez un vieux; gardez un peu de gentilshommes.Vous en aurez besoin peut-être à votre tour!Hélas! vous gémirez peut-être, quelque jour!Que la place de Grève ait été si fêtée,Et que tant de seigneurs, de valeur indomptée;Vers qui se tourneront vos regrets envieux,Soient morts depuis longtemps, qui ne seraient pas vieux!Car nous sommes tout chauds de la guerre civile,Et le tocsin d'hier gronde encor dans la villeSoyez plus ménager des peines du bourreau:C'est lui qui doit garder son estoc au fourreau,Non pas nous! D'échafauds montrez vous économe;Craignez d'avoir, un jour, à pleurer tel brave homme,Tel vaillant de grand cœur dont, à l'heure qu'il est,Le squelette blanchit aux chaînes d'un gibet!Sire, le sang n'est pas un bonne rosée;Nulle moisson ne vient sur la grève arrosée;Et le peuple des rois évite le balcon,Quand, aux dépens du Louvre, ils peuplent Montfaucon.Meurent les courtisans, s'il faut que leur voix ailleVous amuser, pendant que le bourreau travaille!Cette voix des flatteurs qui dit que tout est bon,Qu'après tout, on est fils d'Henri Quatre, et Bourbon,Si haute qu'elle soit, ne couvre pas sans peineLe bruit sourd qu'en tombant fait une tête humaine.Je vous en donne avis, ne jouez pas ce jeu,Roi, qui serez, un jour, face a face avec Dieu.Donc, je vous dis, avant que rien ne s'accomplisse,Qu'à tout prendre, il vaut mieux un combat qu'un supplice,Que ce n'est pas la joie et l'honneur des ÉtatsDe voir plus de besogneaux bourreaux qu'aux soldats!Que ce n'est un pasteur dur pour la France où vous êtes,Qu'un prêtre qui se paye une dîme de têtes,Et que cet homme, illustre entre les inhumains,Qui touche à votre sceptre, a du sang à ses mains!"
"Why! you know it by heart then?"
"I hope so, indeed!"
"Why the deuce did you learn it?"
"I know nearly the whole ofMarion Delormeby heart."
And I quoted almost the whole of the scene between Didier and Marion Delorme, in the island.
"Ah! that is indeed odd!" he said.
"No! there is nothing odd about it. I simply thinkMarion Delormeone of the most beautiful things in the world. I had the manuscript at my disposal and have read and re-read it. The lines I have just recited have remained in my memory and I repeated them to you in support of my opinion."
"Then, too," continued my critic, "the plot is taken from de Vigny's novel...."
"Good! that is exactly where Hugo shows his wisdom. I would willingly have been his John the forerunner in this instance."
"Do you mean to say that Saverny and Didier are not copied from Cinq-Mars and de Thou?"
"As man is copied from man and no further!"
"And Didier is your Antony."
"Rather say that Antony is taken from Didier, seeing thatMarion Delormewas made a year before I dreamt ofAntony"Ah! well, one good thing has come out of it."
"What is that?"
"Your defence of Victor Hugo."
"Why not? I like him and admire him."
"A colleague!" said the critic in a tone of profound pity, and shrugging his shoulders.
"Take your seats, gentlemen!" shouted the conductor.
We remounted, the editor of theJournal des Débatsinside, I in the coupé, and the diligence resumed a monotonous trot, to meditation.